She pressed her hands against slick tiles. Water cascading against her body, beating at her neck with shooting heat. Sound, something between a growl and a frustrated groan tore of her throat. Anger, frustration, hostility, warmth, protectiveness, low burning heat in her lower belly, animosity, helplessness,… and so much more coiled inside her. Seven days after their botched attempt to undo the mess and Hermione couldn't tell where she ended and he started. She wasn't even sure if all emotions were hers.
One might think that sudden and unwelcome mutual insight would bring more understanding between them. One might. But nothing was further from the truth. She was still plagued by his memories. Bits and pieces of information he hid from Voldemort. The insight that made her feel angry and disappointed. Not in him but oddly enough at Albus.
She knew the adults knew more than they let them, the children, to hear. But, she learned that Albus kept information from Order as well, controlling tightly who learned what. Not one single person having a whole picture. She could feel Snape's repulsion by the fact that he was forced to lie to the Order. His paranoia and fear. She could understand it. If he was forced to conceal what he knew – what Albus hid for him?
Another insight, most unwelcome, accompanied with a not small amount of guilt plagued her these days. They were all so convinced that Snape came to report directly from Death Eater meetings, unscratched and full of disdain. They gloated when Sirius taunted Snape, enjoying that their 'enemy' finally run into the wall he couldn't break. But now she knew. Feeling of deep shame gripping her throat, making her avoid his eyes, half expecting to see the smug gleam of contempt in them. He never came straight to the meetings. He first reported to Dumbledore, healed his wounds, withered in pain. And only when he was once again his old self he would don his Death Eater robes anew and played his part. He was the best actor she ever was seen.
Her heart quivered painfully. She admired him. His strength, his resolve. She mourned for his feeling of loneliness. His pain, forever present. She hated him. His skill of deception, he deceived even her. She was angry at him. His intrusion, now she couldn't hide from him, in the same manner, he couldn't hide from her.
And maybe she would be curious, intrigued how this happened and what that entailed – if it wasn't happening to her. No, there was no mutual understanding. No better insight. Only anger on both sides. She closed her eyes, remembering that morning…
…"You still can see my memories?" he choked out after a long silence and she nodded. He shook his head "This can't be happening. Not to me." It was almost a moan full of desperation, concealed in an aggressive hiss
"We can fix it…" she tried
"Fix what, Granger? You had one task. One task, child, and you failed to execute it." he growled "You will not root around my head again. Not while I manage to use my magic. I will fix this. And then… you better never come close to me. Ever. Again. As. Long. As. You. Live." He bit out last words through clenched teeth
"It's not like much changed." she countered it, anger slowly rising in her chest. Fine, she failed, his reaction was uncalled for.
"Everything changed you twit!" his voice slipped to a dangerous whisper "You didn't fail to resolve the issue – you enhanced it. It serves you right, I supposed."
"Serves me right – what? You can yell at me. You can hiss. But unless you tell me what is wrong… I have no clue what are you talking about." She snapped
"Now, at least we're even. Now, Granger, I. can. See. Your. Memories." He hissed at her…
…After that situation exploded. And by the time Malfoy entered the room with Harry and Matron in his wake they argued. If she was honest with herself, their visitors landed in a middle of a war zone. She accused him of deliberately steering her towards the wrong strand of memories. Of course, she knew that he was correct and that silver was the colour of foreign memories – inside someone's head (not that she ever heard about such case) or out the head in general. And it was her fault, she followed his instruction when she should have followed her own instincts. She should have known her own mind, how it felt, better than he did. Soft, golden glowing strand was hers. She was so sure of it, but she listened to him anyway.
If she told him anything, argued her feeling, they might have solved all this. But no, she had to do as he told her, landing both of them in this situation. And now, he was privy to her memories. All of her memories. A deep blush spread like a wildfire to the roots of her hair and down her chest. She had so few of nice memories and she clung to them with the desperation of a drowning person. She didn't want him to see them. They were hers, and hers alone.
Shaking her head she let the grim smile stretch over her lips. It was in a way a form of poetic justice. Another insight. Another notch on her already bleeding heart. Now she knew how he felt all this time. Deprived. Violated. Subjected to constant shame. She hated herself for doing that to him, on top of all he suffered. She hated him, for giving her more reasons to hate herself, to doubt her abilities and capacities. But most of all, she hated him for not being guilty but yet again the victim.
~ S ~ S ~ S ~
Severus blinked, letting his eyes finally open at the sound of rushing water coming from the bathroom. He was finally alone. It wasn't that he couldn't think while she was in the room – he could. But the tension between them was palatable. He wondered how he allowed himself to end up in this situation? Unbalanced, he was unbalanced, unprotected and exposed to emotions he rather wouldn't face. That's how.
Still, nothing could justify his behaviour. He was thirty-something nearly forty years old. Not eighteen. Truth to be told, he had more command over his actions and emotions at eighteen than now. By that age, he was already Death Eater. He already took at least one human life, one that he knew about. He was ruthless, cold and controlled. Now… now he was bickering like an old woman. He growled, voicing his displacement with his own behaviour.
How, in Salazar's name, could he allow himself to be so thrown off track by a mere child? A swotty, prissy Know-it-all. Brainiac menace from his classroom! In a way, he should be satisfied. Even if the girl didn't notice, her demeanour changed. She was more prone to fight and less to self-imposed guilt. She placed the blame where it belonged now, and that was a good thing. She even started to fight depression, which was good… except… Her recipe was simple. So simple that he could kick himself for not seeing that solution for himself. She almost desperately clings to what she perceived as 'good memories'. She matched them with 'bad memories' and trained her mind to slide from 'bad' to 'good'. Simple and elegant. And torturous!
Her good memories were few. Scattered all over the school days, war, including even few of the recent ones with him. After two days he could discern a pattern. When she dreamt of the forest, she would slip into memories of class with Hagrid. And he was fine with that. But when she dreamt of using memory charm on her parents…. It was more than he ever wanted to know about any of his students. She would cling to weak and greyish memories of her and that Weasley oaf. He wasn't interested in his own sexual life, not that he had one – by choice. He certainly wasn't interested to be privy of clumsy fumbling of two teenagers in the dark tent. Even less interested to witness her less than satisfying her first, and only, an excursion into the world of carnal pleasure. He smirked. Not in a million years one could call that experience…pleasurable. Painfully obvious that she had no clue what to do, besides her knowledge of contraception charms, that she mercifully used. The boy, on the other hand, did have some experience, but not the incentive to make the event more pleasant for the girl. Suffice to know that event ended with her tears and the oaf's snores.
In a way he pitied her. Maybe it was a small mercy that she didn't know about anything better. Granger will after all certainly end up married to that oaf.
He shook his head violently. He has to find something to entertain his mind. Contemplating on amorous experiences of his students was… unacceptable. With all atrocities he committed in his life he could take pride in one thing… he never lusted or have been inappropriate toward the student. And he had a firm determination not to start now. Sure, he did try to annoy the girl, but he never had any real intent behind his actions.
Forcing his mind to switch the subject he focused on his last dream – his Dream Lady. She was perfection. Of course, he wasn't unaware of the shift. And even if he gave a slight 'could shoulder' to Lucius, he had to admit that Lucius had a point. He wondered, on the rare occasion when he was left with his thoughts when that shift started. The Dream Lady was just a manifestation, a final product not the initiator – he was sure of it. Then again, if he allowed himself to face the hard facts, he wouldn't be able to go through all of it. He needed something to get him over that path of glass chips barefooted.
Lily. She was still open wound inside his chest. In a way, she would always be, as long as he breathes. She was his reason. Painful truth was – for a long time, even before she died… she wasn't his love. And that was the truth he didn't want to face. Not yet. Even if he was aware of it, he ignored it. He let is slide and focused on the non-existing woman, one created by his muddled brain.
And she was… perfection. Subtle. Gentle. Sensual. Intelligent. Focused on him. He didn't care how she looked like. What was the colour of her eyes or hair? Any physical marking was unimportant. To him, she was perfect. The memory of the last night's dram floated in front of his eyes. Pale green dress, floaty around the middle of her shins. Her small bare feet buried in a dew-soaked grass. Her laughter and the way she tossed her head back. The silhouette of her perfect proportions leaning against the body of an old tree. Her small hand beckoning him to come to her and take a refuge in the thick shade. Her head in his lap, leaning on his thighs as they read, each its own book in amiable silence.
Groan emanated from his chest. His wayward libido decided to mistook a pleasant and emotionally satisfying moment for an erotic one. He forced himself to think about anything else. It wouldn't bode well if she got out from the bathroom to see him wank. He had to do something, solve the problem somehow… get better and get the grasp on is magic and his walls… and to get rid of her – for good.
He felt like screaming. His re-awakened libido, facing naked truths and his runaway train of thoughts were new kind of torture – his own special brand of hell.
~ S ~ S ~ S ~
Hermione groaned in frustration. Heat from her neck and back plunged down her spine pooling in her lower abdomen. With an exasperated sigh, she unhooked the shower and switched the stream on the head from 'spray' to 'massage'. She wasn't sure should she be lucky that Malfoys did possess this modern bathroom or not. However, she discovered in past few days that one could do so much to alleviate piled up stress with a simple shift of stream on the shower head. Closing her eyes she pressed her back to the tills and glided toward the till covered shower floor, clutching the shower handle in her hand.